


Aleatory

by La_Temperanza



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Artists, Anxious Katsuki Yuuri, Background Phichit/Chris, Coffee Shops, Gratitous Use of Favorite Tropes, Humor, Long-Haired Katsuki Yuuri, M/M, Miscommunication, Sassy Katsuki Yuuri, Sassy Phichit Chulanont, Snark, Social Skills of a Toaster
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-19
Updated: 2018-07-19
Packaged: 2019-06-13 05:26:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15357240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/La_Temperanza/pseuds/La_Temperanza
Summary: aleatory(adj.) relying on chance or an uncontrolled element in the details of life or the creation of art[*]There are four things to know about Katsuki Yuuri:He fits the struggling artist stereotype to a T, but only because of his overwhelming sense of perfection and tendency to self-criticize holds him back.He hates Monday mornings more than a certain orange cartoon tabby.He really didn't mean to be a jerk to the gorgeous blue-eyed stranger who offered to pay for his coffee (and he blames point number 2)He reallyreallydidn't expect to become obsessed with said stranger to point where he's creating art again, but inspiration works in mysterious ways.(Or the one where artist Yuuri goes into a coffee shop to drink away his morning blues only to wind up thirsty for Victor.)





	Aleatory

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this fic for MONTHS now, but didn't really have a chance to post it until the Autotelēs prompt **The Arts/The Sciences** came along. Thank you to the WWV chat for always encouraging me and [Basia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/belovedstill/pseuds/belovedyuuri) for stepping up and betaing this for me! TTuTT <3

Yuuri is _not_ a morning person. 

This has long been established by his mother who used to joke her sweet innocent boy had been swapped in the middle of the night with a cantankerous monster child. The transformation from demonic changeling back to her Yuuri was a complex process involving plenty of frustrated tears on both their parts. Often the bribery of Yuuri’s favorite breakfast was implemented on days Katsuki Hiroko didn’t feel like forcibly dragging her son out of bed.

As an adult, Yuuri can now get up in the mornings by himself, but it doesn’t mean he’s any happier about it. He abhors it more than ever, and Monday mornings are especially the worst. 

He thinks no one actually likes Mondays. Anyone who claims otherwise is instantly labeled as a ‘lying liar who lies in a bed of lies’ in Yuuri’s book. Mondays are a pox upon civilization that has overstayed its welcome, a plague against humanity to be eradicated. Sometimes he imagines leading the revolt, the melodic strains of Edith Piaf’s ‘Non, je ne regrette rien’ filtering through the air as he shouts to the masses, “ _Release your shackles from the tyranny of Monday, my friends, and be free!_ ” 

…Okay, so maybe he’s a tiny bit over-dramatic in his campaign against Monday—besides, no doubt Tuesday would rise up to replace it, the traitor—but one can hardly blame him. Every time Mondays roll around, tearing him from the sanctity of his weekends, it serves as a reminder of how much he’s fallen short of his goals in life. He thought he would be an artist by now. No, make that a _financially stable_ artist by now. While he’s never stopped creating—Sketchbook #263, which he currently carries with him everywhere, is a testament to that—so far it hasn’t produced any feasible income for him in return. At least nothing he can survive on without resorting to a diet made of pre-packaged ramen noodles. 

(Not the quality kind either, but the cheap crap clueless college students binge on in lieu of anything with actual nutritional value, the type that taste like processed regret.)

So instead, at the ripe age of twenty-four, he’s stuck at a dead-end corporate position with no immediate plans for the future. He’s been slaving under ‘The Man’ for eight and a half months now, dealing with a sniveling weasel of a supervisor whose heavy-handed cologne reeks of Eau de Trust Fund Nepotism. The job is about as pleasant as a root canal, performed by one of those dentists who engage in awkward small-talk about proper flossing methods while they have their fingers shoved inside your mouth. But it helps pay bills and his share of the rent, so Yuuri can’t complain, much.

(Even if it does feel like a small piece of his soul shrivels off and dies with each and every paycheck.)

The only defense he has against Monday mornings is coffee, the sweet caffeinated nectar of the gods. It’s an absolute prerequisite before he embarks on his daily commute from hell, and he always stops at the quaint family-owned shop right by the bus station to get his fix. They don’t exactly produce liquid gold there, but it’s certainly better than the dark sludge his own decrepit coffeemaker churns out whenever Yuuri tries to brew at home. 

The problem is, this particular Monday he goes to order his usual—large, medium roast, two creams, and three sugars—only to find his wallet is missing. He has a miniature panic-attack before he remembers it’s on his nightstand, left behind in his dash to get ready earlier this morning. Funnily enough (or un-funnily, since he’s definitely not laughing), he had placed it there last night so he _wouldn’t_ forget.

So yeah, that plan’s worked out great.

The perky teenage barista at the counter seems sympathetic when Yuuri explains what’s happened. Yet it doesn’t prevent the red-hot shame steeping in his cheeks, and he mumbles apologies for wasting everyone’s time as he moves to step out of the line.

Then a voice calls out from the back: “I can pay for it!”

Yuuri starts to say no, it’s okay, that’s not necessary, really. He’s not comfortable with the idea of owing anyone anything, even over something as inconsequential as a coffee. Growing up with parents who toiled day and night to sustain their aging onsen business in a dying seaside town has put one hell of a chip on his shoulder. He’d hate to be viewed as any sort of charity case. 

But then Yuuri turns around and stops mid-protest because the man who offered to pay is breathtaking. Like, he literally makes Yuuri forget how to breathe for a second, which has to be the explanation as to why Yuuri is now gasping instead of producing comprehensible words.

Blue. The man’s eyes are blue. Yuuri knows there’s a predetermined list of qualifiers he can tack on to further describe the shade and hue, with names ranging from ‘indigo’ to ‘cornflower’ to ‘Byzantine’, but none of them quite fit. The man’s eyes are just _blue_ , in its purest form. They share the same crisp clearness with the underbelly of ancient iceberg behemoths, equally devastating to those who stray too far into their path. It would be impossible to capture their true nature by brush and paint, even by the great masters themselves.

They’re also twinkling with amusement, like the man is very much aware he’s being gawked at, his posture suggesting he’s used to the attention. While he’s only scant inches taller than Yuuri, it’s enough of a difference for his presence to fill the room. Instead of the overhead fluorescent bulbs washing him out to caffeine-deprived zombie status—like every other unfortunate person underneath them, Yuuri himself included—they highlight the translucent strands of the man’s hair at all the right angles, causing it to gleam like quicksilver and shift just as fluidly. His skin is milky pale yet flushed with a bright healthy glow, reminiscent of rice paper screens back home in Japan illuminated from behind by the light of a full harvest moon.

The side of Yuuri that appreciates fine art says the man is like a living sculpture of the highest caliber, crafted of flesh and bone rather than clay or marble. As for the side of him that hasn’t gotten laid in over fourteen months? Well, he’s about three seconds from jumping the man’s bones because _hot damn_.

But like most fine art, the man is unattainable for mortals like Yuuri, and he’s not going to delude himself otherwise. There’s no way he’ll let himself be Icarus, drawn to the sun like a moth to a flame, only to crash and burn once the wax on his wings melts away. He’s been caught in that death-spiral once before and still has the scars to prove it. 

(When Tennyson said, “ _‘Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all,_ ” he was so full of shit.)

“It’s okay,” the man says after Yuuri has yet to form a coherent sentence. “You can pay me back later if it really means that much to you!”

Something about the words rubs Yuuri the wrong way, and he snaps out of his stupor. He mutters a half-hearted thank you and then snatches the coffee, scrambling off before the man can say anything else. Yuuri feels those ultra-blue eyes follow him and sear a hole into the back of his skull, but he resists the urge to turn around. 

It’s only later after the caffeine has cleared the fog of sleep from his head enough so he can properly think, he admits he might have been a bit rude. Okay, extremely rude. But it’s not his fault, really! He’s automatically in a bad mood on Mondays and he just happened to take the offer as patronizing when it was most likely...a very nice gesture. One that his inept social skills have ruined by turning him into an ungrateful asshole.

Damnit.

  
  
  
  
  
  
 

In critical situations such as these, Yuuri does what he does best: he overthinks. He meticulously pokes and prods at every possible scenario before coming to the conclusion he’ll just never return to the coffeehouse again in order to avoid any further embarrassment. He’ll adapt, somehow. Maybe even develop an unhealthy addiction to energy drinks to take the edge off the fatigue of weekdays.

When that fails to prove helpful, he does what he does second best: he pours that nervous energy into his creative process. The tremble in his hands begets broad sweeping strokes, and his anxieties unknot, unwind, unfurl to reveal they were passion and drive stacked in a self-critiquing trench coat the entire time.

He breaks out the charcoal first, sketching and smudging and rubbing, one piece after another until his hands are tinged deadened gray and a thin black rim of dust lodges itself into his nail beds. The drawings Yuuri produces are okay, he supposes; they’re dynamic in the way they demonstrate movement and how the man’s bespoke suit clung to his body like a second skin when he strode forward to pay, but that’s about it.

(And yes, the man from the shop is the subject of Yuuri’s latest artistic frenzy, which seems counterintuitive with the mission to put the whole exchange behind him and forget it ever occurred.

_Except._

It’s proving easier said than done.) 

Oils are next. While Yuuri doesn’t use them as often because of the increased expense—buying canvases in bulk only shaves off so much cost in the long run—they’re by far his favorite art media. The harsh scrape of the metal spatula against the frosted glass palette is soothing to him, methodical, like a skater slicing figure-eights into the ice. 

But he’s still not satisfied, spurred on by an itch he can’t scratch. The smeared globs of paint are nowhere near close to being dried before he moves on to a fresh blank surface to try again. 

And again. 

And again.

It’s on his fourth or fifth canvas when he realizes this has become his white whale to chase, his boulder to bear uphill for eternity. Instead of despair over this personal revelation, however, he’s imbued with an invigorated sense of purpose. 

He can’t remember having this much fun in _years_. 

When he later stumbles out into the living room close to eleven, a little woozy from the fumes and skipping dinner, Phichit is graciously waiting with takeout. Yuuri didn’t even know he was home, but that’s part of their mutual arrangement: Phichit doesn’t interrupt Yuuri while he’s in the zone except for extreme cases, like their faulty microwave shooting out electrical sparks again. In exchange, Yuuri invests in a quality pair of noise-canceling headphones and makes himself scarce whenever Phichit’s certain Swiss gentleman comes a-calling. 

(It’s not a foolproof system. Yuuri has still walked in on Phichit and Christophe more times than he can count, seeing much more of male anatomy in high detail than he ever has in any of his figure drawing classes. And in spite of the common stereotype held about artists and their free-spirited ideas on ‘communal love,’ Yuuri constantly turns down the invitations to join in for a culturally mixed ménage a trois.

 ~~No matter how tempting the offer may be.~~ )

“...So,” Phichit starts after he hands over reheated containers of Yuuri’s usual order, an unspoken question poised beyond the cheeriness of his lilt, “it’s been a while since it was like this, hasn’t it?”

No further clarification is needed; it’s obvious what he means. There was once a time where Yuuri could be MIA for days on end because he was so engrossed in his art, emerging every now and then out of bare necessity. Phichit used to lovingly refer to him as ‘the cryptid roommate’ and post updates on Instagram about the latest sightings to his followers. 

(To this day, Yuuri doesn’t understand why almost a hundred people liked a photo of him deadpanning Phichit’s camera, dark bags under his eyes and clumps of dried paint in his hair, the caption underneath reading, ‘UPDATE: ROOMIE LIIIIIIIVES!! <333!! **#startedtoworry #damnboyilu #butplsgoshower** ’, but he’s given up on trying to grasp the concept of what’s viral-worthy on social media.)

But when the pressures of life and need for a ‘ _real_ ’ job began to cave in on themselves, Yuuri’s flame was nearly snuffed out of existence. Recently the only reason their spare bedroom isn’t covered in a layer of dust due to nonuse is because it’s also where they store their exercise equipment, with yoga mats leaning forlornly against forgotten easels. Yuuri’s fallen into the habit of keeping the door shut whenever he passes by to lessen the spike of guilt he gets from the reminder of the last time he’s picked up a paintbrush. 

(It hasn’t worked.)

So this sudden surge is like throwing water on a dying grease fire, roaring back to life and spitting out flame. Yuuri allows himself to revel in the warmth, as small as it is in the grand scheme of things, and smiles around the steaming bite of pork fried rice he’s shoveled into his mouth. “I was inspired today.”

“Really?” Phichit’s grin stretches wider until it reaches the border of predatory. “You know you can’t say stuff like that and not tell me more!”

While Phichit’s the type of sweet perfect human being who decorates tiny millet seed cakes for his hamsters on birthdays and special occasions, he also has the uncanny ability to wheedle out details of Yuuri’s social life—or lack thereof—by the power of his friendly charms alone. There’s no point in fighting it; more valiant men have tried and lost. It’s how they’ve been receiving cable and internet without spending a single dime, and why their rent hasn’t been raised once in the past three years despite no mention of rent-control in their rather sketchy lease agreement. 

Yuuri acquiesces to the inevitable and recounts his disaster of a morning, from oversleeping to the misplaced wallet to the stranger and Yuuri’s unintentional dickishness towards him. Phichit laughs and shakes his head at the appropriate key moments, his amusement never coming off as mocking as it might’ve if it had come from anybody else. 

“Well,” Phichit says after Yuuri’s finished his tale of woe and is now drowning his sorrows in sweet and sour sauce, “while I’m disappointed that you didn’t get a number or even a name, I’m glad you saw a booty so fine it made you start painting again. It means my little boy’s growing up!” 

“I’m older than you,” Yuuri protests, stabbing his food with more force than necessary. “And I didn’t see his butt.”

Phichit waves him off. “We can mourn over missed opportunities later. What’s important right now is whether this means you’ll finally submit something to that showcase coming up in less than two months?”

“Oh,” Yuuri says, which he knows isn’t the answer Phichit’s wants to hear. It’s hardly the first time they’ve had this conversation about this; the biannual showcase of local downtown artists at the Ekaterina Nikiforova Gallery has always been a source of mild contention between them. Every time, Phichit urges Yuuri to fill out an application for wall space, suggesting it could be his big break, or does Yuuri really want to be trapped working under someone called ‘Chad,’ ‘Brad,’ or any other variations of the ‘-ad’ name for the rest of his life? Yuuri swears he doesn’t, yet every time he hems and haws until he ‘accidentally’ misses the showcase deadline. 

Truth be told, while he’s grown up around public nudity (and secretly enjoyed the pole-dancing class Phichit once dragged him to on a drunken whim after they downed way too many tequila shots), nothing leaves Yuuri feeling more exposed than the thought of his work hanging in the hallowed halls of a prestigious art gallery or museum.

He’s not worried about it being good, because even he’s not blind to the sometimes literal blood, sweat, and tears he’s shed in developing his talents since he was a young boy, stealing his older sister’s schoolwork so he could have something to sketch on. It’s been more of a question of whether it’s _enough_. If it achieves the Herculean standards set by his harshest critic: himself.

Not this time. Now Yuuri wants the rest of the world to experience that _blue_ , and to know he’s going to be the one to immortalize it. 

  
  
  
  
  
  


Yuuri has second thoughts once he’s actually at the gallery showing. 

He tugs at his collar for the nth time, his suit fitting as well to be expected from a last-minute purchase off the clearance rack. The jacket cuts too boxy across the shoulders and the trouser cuffs stop inches short of his bare ankles. Plus, the polyester blend clings firmly to his curves, which wouldn’t be too bad if he wasn’t so terrified of splitting the seams the second he has to bend for something. Phichit insisted with enough confidence, Yuuri could pull the entire look off as ‘artsy eccentric’ rather than ‘fashion disaster’, but it’s highly debatable. 

Speaking of Phichit, Yuuri’s unruly strands of hair has been wrangled into an elaborate French twist. Only because when he asked why he couldn’t do his usual ponytail, Yuuri might’ve as well shredded Phichit’s professional cosmetology license to hamster bedding and then pissed on the remains. 

Yuuri has to admit it does look classier, and it’s nice to see without his bangs getting in the way, but the multiple bobby pins currently jammed into his scalp are already starting to give him a headache. That’s on top of his eyes watering up a storm because he’s not accustomed to wearing contacts. He much prefers the ease of glasses, especially when dealing with the fumes from oils and solvents while in the studio.

The image of his mother and her warm hospitable smile locked into place—even after the longest of days and most sullen of onsen customers—springs to the forefront of his mind. So Yuuri swallows down his discomfort with yet another swig of the complimentary champagne he grips in his sweaty palm and stumbles over rehearsed gratitudes to the gallery patrons who flitter by to lavish praise on his work. Out of his periphery, he spots others staring and whispering behind cupped hands and it’s like he’s in high school all over again. A telltale flush not from the alcohol creeps up his face, but he pointedly ignores the gossipers in favor of draining the remainder of his glass. 

This isn’t for them, anyway, nor is it for the chance meeting that bore it. This is to prove Yuuri could claim that blue as his own like no one else could. Not for the first time tonight, he glances over to his painting, an abstract study on the duality of light and shade intermingled in the icy tide of an Arctic sea. He wonders how it compares to the original. 

“It’s an awe-inspiring composition,” says a voice from behind him, and Yuuri freezes. It’s been months since he’s heard it outside his dreams, but he can still recognize that smooth accented rumble like it was yesterday. “Almost as if you can hear the gulls crying out over the crashing waves from here.” There’s a wistful sigh tickling at the juncture of Yuuri’s neck and shoulder, and then: “There’s just one thing that has been bothering me about it though.”

Yuuri turns and gulps because those eyes are bluer than he remembered. A lot closer, too. At this proximity he can see the man’s skin isn’t the flawless uniform porcelain as originally believed; there’s a smattering of sun-kissed freckles on his cheeks stubbornly peek out from behind a powdered layer of concealer. It reminds Yuuri of what he heard about Persian rugs once. How they would have intentional flaws weaved into their intricate designs because it was believed only God himself is supposed to be perfect. Yet that little mistake, be it misplaced stitch or oddly colored thread, somehow makes the piece more valuable and attractive to the eye. 

“What’s that?” he croaks while tearing his gaze down to the golden nameplate clipped near the lapel of the man’s tapered suit jacket.

‘Victor Nikiforov,’ the engraved text reads in elegant script, and underneath it: ‘Ekaterina Nikiforova Gallery, Owner/Director’

Right. Of course it does. 

“The title,” ‘Victor’ replies regardless of Yuuri’s internal freak-out. His fingernail taps against the vinyl information card affixed to the wall and then traces the blocky printed letters of the painting’s title and listed media, followed by Yuuri’s name. The tender gesture evokes a rush of heat from deep within Yuuri, as if Victor has trailed those slender fingers down the hills and valleys of his spine instead. “‘Three Forty-Nine’. I thought it might be some important date, or perhaps geographical coordinates—”

“Coffee,” Yuuri blurts. “It’s the price of a large coffee.”

The exact second Victor makes the connection is worthy of a Baroque portrait itself. “... _Wow!_ It’s you!” He laughs, delighted, which is hardly the reaction Yuuri himself would have upon hearing a random stranger has been obsessed about his eyes for months. 

With a single step forward, Victor somehow slips completely inside Yuuri’s personal bubble without bursting it. His aura is large and encompassing enough to blur the rest of the room out of existence, a vignette effect where his enigmatic smile is the center of focus. When he tilts his head to the side and rubs his chin in pantomime of curiosity, some of his bangs cascade downwards to fall in front of his assessing gaze. Yuuri’s hands twitch with the almost uncontrollable urge to sweep them back out of the way.

“Now I’m wondering,” Victor murmurs, “as to what would’ve happened if I had bought you a muffin, too.”

Victor recognizes him. Scratch that, Yuuri’s apparently made such a strong impression that Victor _remembers_ him. 

Maybe it’s the alcohol starting to buzz in his system. Maybe it’s his sense of spontaneity determined for him to commit social suicide with Victor, again. Maybe it’s both. Either way, before Yuuri can consider the full implications, something instinctive and emboldening grabs control of his mouth. “Buy me dinner instead,” he says, and oh, he’s been a naive fool. For the fragile pink blooming across Victor’s cheeks is much more worthy of being immortalized in paint than any blue. “And we’ll go from there.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Kudos/Comments are always appreciated and you come find me on [tumblr](http://teekettle.tumblr.com/) and say hi!


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